Chapter 12
He’s a dick. A total stronzo.
Who the hell does he think he is? Throwing a tantrum in broad daylight, threatening Arnold like some unhinged thug. Like he’s in some damn mafia movie. Whatever …
What was that supposed to prove? That he’s tough? That he owns the room? That he owns me?
God, I should be furious. I am furious. After so much time that he brought me back home, my hands are shaking, my face still burning. I could slap him so hard his ancestors feel it.
And yet, I can’t stop thinking about him.
His eyes … Oh, his dark and penetrating eyes … That stupidly sexy smirk he throws every time I look at him, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to me. The way he says my name. That “little orchid” that’s stuck on his tongue and I can’t stop needing to hear.
Why do I feel like this? Why, out of all the things he did, is the only part stuck in my head the way he looked at me right after? Like I mattered. Like he’d burn the world if I asked.
I hate him for it. I hate that I want him even now.
He’s a bastard.
But he’s my bastard.
And I don’t know whether I want to slap him or kiss him until I forget what I was angry about.
I close my eyes and try to push the thought of him away, but all I do is feed it.
That unreadable stare, strong enough to pin me down with a look alone. Because, fuck, I haven’t stopped thinking about him since the second he looked at me.
The way his eyes dropped to my throat when he said that jealousy suits me. The way I want to see if he’d say my name, or just fuck it out of me instead.
I’m restless. Sweaty. Agitated in a way I can’t pretend is just insomnia.
My room feels suffocating, as if the walls corrode around me.
I squeeze my thighs together, hoping it’ll pass, but it doesn’t.
“Fuck it.”
I throw the blanket off and slide my hand straight between my legs like a fucking addict.
My fingers slip through the mess, and I moan under my breath, furious at how badly I need this.
I’m already wet, already needy, and that just pisses me off more.
I start rubbing, slow at first, then harder when it doesn’t help.
My hips jerk. I grind against my hand like I’m trying to fuck myself. And I kind of am.
Pathetic, I think.
I tell myself I’m not thinking about anyone. Just the feeling. Just getting off so I can sleep.
That lie lasts about ten seconds.
I’m picturing him.
Coming into my room without knocking. Grabbing my wrist, yanking my hand out from between my thighs and pinning it above my head.
You touching what’s mine now, princess?
My whole body clenches. I press two fingers hard against my clit and circle, quickly and filthily. My other hand grips the sheets like it might hold me together.
I want him to say it.
You gonna come for me with your fingers like a little whore? Or do you want me to do it for you?
Fuck.
My legs are shaking. I’m getting off to the image of my father’s bodyguard grabbing my jaw and telling me what I’ve been begging for it since the first moment like a desperate little brat.
I moan quietly.
I push my fingers deeper, faster, hips grinding against my own hand to meet the rhythm. My free hand grips the sheets tighter.
I need more. I need him.
God.
I picture his hand on my throat, his mouth against my ear, that voice telling me to keep going while he watches.
Faster. Show me how filthy you are. You think Daddy would still protect you if he knew you got off like this?
My whole body tenses. I’m so close it hurts.
I rub harder, chasing the pressure, my breathing wrecked, body tightening fast. Shame and want crash together until I can’t tell which one’s driving me.
Harder. I’m close. I’m soaked. I’m panting like a bitch in heat.
The climax hits like a gunshot.
I come quickly and violently, biting down on a sound as my body shakes, hand still moving because I don’t want it to stop yet.
The release rips through me hard and sudden, leaving me wrecked and breathless in its wake.
When it finally does, I lie there panting, heart pounding like I’ve done something wrong.
Oh, damn …
I came like a needy, filthy slut over a man I’m not allowed to want and who drives me insane with his smug attitude.
Adam
I’m fucked …
I can’t stop fucking thinking about her.
It’s constant. In my head, under my skin, crawling through my bloodstream like a goddamn infection.
Every look she gives me, every awkward or bratty flick of her eyes, every time she says my name, thinking I won’t do anything about it … all of it goes straight to my cock.
God, I’m fucking pathetic.
Obsessing over some woman I barely even know? What the hell is wrong with me? Like—who does that? Who burns their whole life to the ground over a goddamn stranger? I just lit a match and watched it burn.
Faking my own death. That’s how far I took it.
I had a life. Not a great one, but it was mine. An assassin career, people waiting to be killed, a rent I was barely keeping up with. Okay, maybe not ideal, but what’s ever ideal?
She’s in my head all the time. Not even doing anything—just parading that sexy body and attitude, talking to me, making that hiss sound even hotter on her lips.
And that’s enough to keep me hooked like some strung-out loser. It’s sick. I know it.
Fuck.
I hate that I miss her. I hate that I even think I miss her, because how can you miss someone you don’t really know? But I do. I miss her like an ache. Like a hangover that won’t go away.
I want to go find her and make her choke on that innocence of hers.
Instead, I’m in this cold room in this overpriced prison of a mansion with my cock out, jerking it like an animal.
Fucking perfect.
I spit in my palm and stroke slow, like I’m trying to talk myself out of it, when in fact, I’m not.
I want her choking on my cock. I want her crying, saying it hurts, and I want to ignore every word of it.
I want to break her.
I want to shove my cock so deep inside her she forgets her own name and only remembers mine.
“Mine,” I growl under my breath, hips bucking into my fist. “Fucking mine.”
I want to be the reason she can’t touch herself without thinking of me. The reason she can’t breathe without remembering the first time I made her come, screaming.
And I will.
One day I will.
I’ll make her kneel. I’ll make her say it.
I’ll make her beg for the cock she’s not supposed to want.
I jerk off with rough, angry pulls, like I’m mad at myself for how badly I want her.
And I am. I hate that I’m this weak. That the girl I barely know has clawed herself so effortlessly, fast and deep in my brain that it’s past any logic.
The girl I want to bend over her daddy’s desk and fuck until she cries.
I stroke harder and faster. My jaw clenches.
I bet that pussy’s tight as fuck. Needy. Soaked from nothing but attention. I’d slide in slow just to hear her beg.
I picture her on her back, legs spread, tears in her eyes from how much it hurts, and loving every second of it.
I’m not gonna be gentle.
My grip tightens, and I fist my cock harder. I picture her gagging on it, crying around it, coming while I hold her down.
My balls are tight. My abs are flexed and I’m right there, thinking about her mouth open, her hands gripping my forearms, nails in my skin as I fuck her for the first time. No slow, careful bullshit. Just the thick stretch of my cock splitting her open while she cries and begs and takes it anyway.
“Fuck.”
I come with a grunt, thick and messy all over my hand, hips jerking into my fist like I’m inside her.
I lean back against the wall, breathing like I fought a war, panting and staring at the ceiling like it’s gonna judge me. Not that I give a shit.
I came thinking about her, and now I want more.
The girl I barely know. The girl I made myself become a fugitive for.
Oh, I’d give everything to fuck the innocence out of her.
I’d give everything just to see what her throat looks like with my cock down it.